lives out back on the hill.

In a tiny log cabin

We call him Ole Bill.

Ole Bill wears a plaid shirt

and tattered old jeans

On his head rests an old cap

His boots split at the seams.

He has three dirty old hounds

They look tired and worn.

But Ole Bill he loves them

And he tells them each morn.

The neighborhood kids

Visit Bill every day.

They sit by his rocker

To hear all he does say.

With a twinkle in his eye.

They listen with wonder

He looks wistful and sighs.

Ole Bill he’s so tired

The kids bring him joy.

They love to hear stories

Bout when Bill was a boy.

He’s seen 90 years of mornings

Eaten three times that many meals.

Says prayers every evening

By his bed he always kneels.

This poem goes on and on

For one simple reason.

Old Bill he must die

But I hope not this season.